


Handle With Care

by kthnotfound



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Angst and Feels, Awkward Flirting, Character Death, Coming of Age, Developing Relationship, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Sexuality Crisis, Slice of Life, questioning the universe, they both die at the end is an au trope not a spoiler
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kthnotfound/pseuds/kthnotfound
Summary: In a world where death can be predicted, George gets a phone call telling him he has less than 24 hours to live, whereas Dream refuses to let his best friend die alone. Told in last minute memories, bittersweet epiphanies, and late night confessions, Dream and George attempt to find forever in a single day.loosely based/inspired by the book 'they both die at the end' by adam silvera.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 40





	1. 12:00 a.m.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this based off the book “they both die at the end”, which in my opinion, was lowkeu the most infuriating novel i’ve ever read. in short: it was kind of a disappointment. the author guy fell short in a lot of ways with a plot carrying so, so much potential! and with that, i thought why not make a dnf fanfic out of it and try to fill in the gaps the author guy left empty (: my version is in no way perfect, but i did change the plot to fit dnf, and i also tweaked some elements that i felt were glossed over in the novel! 
> 
> anyway, i hope you guys enjoy this fic! thanks for taking the time to check this out <3

12:00 A.M. [ 11/23/XX ]

George gets the call that he's going to die around midnight.

There's not much to really say about the situation, considering he's barely awake, and when he does pick up the phone to hear the official message, his head almost lolls to the side and his words are nearly slurring as though he's drunk when in fact, it's the complete opposite.

Instead, his veins thrum with a pathetic mixture of his own blood and an energy drink he chugged moments ago to fend off the sleep blurring his already strained vision. Though he supposes that this combination of exhaustion and sobriety can be comparable to a nasty hangover, once that voice message plays over his speaker, announcing that his life might be over in the next 24 hours, George wishes he's drunk.

If he was drunk, maybe reality would have set in a little later, and like most wish to be in times of dire distress (in this case, being told you're going to fucking die soon), George could dwindle away being nothing but a beautiful little fool.

But unfortunately, the phone call jolts him awake as though someone takes the chance to douse him with a bucket of ice cold water, so that the hours he's spent awake at his desk editing Youtube videos and joining his friends' streams vanish into thin air as his entire body and mind cramp in some sort of below-zero spasm. 

He's aware now; painfully aware that this, this is it.

There's no warning— just facts— and those facts are not in his favor, and there's no liquor in his system to make those facts any less plausible than they already are.

It's like he can see fucking sound like colors: that's how awake he is. Or well, technically, he can't really see much color since he's colorblind, and seeing sound waves are humanly impossible, but George is dangerously teetering on the edge of passing out and consciousness, therefore he's in that weird, questionable inbetween of absorbing everything and nothing at all.

And as of this moment, he's somewhat absorbing everything. For now.

"Is this George Davidson?" When he finally focuses in on her voice, he realizes the woman Death-Caster's speech is awfully nasally. Like she's been congested all day but doesn't really give a damn anymore.

Her job requires the ability to not give a damn about anything, considering she must be calling hundreds of thousands of people with a message nobody really imagines ever hearing, so it suits her well, George supposes.

"Yes," He breathes out, reclining further into the back of his chair. He blinks, tilting his head back to stare up at his ceiling. He inhales, a beat passes, and then adds. "That's me."

"Hello," She says, voice strangely automated but George assumes that's from doing this all day, "I'm calling from Death-Cast. I regret to inform you that sometime in the next twenty-four hours, you'll be meeting an untimely death."

"Great," George says, sarcasm lathering his heavy words. He swallows dryly and squints at his ceiling, focus flitting between the fuzzy ceiling and the silence that envelops the call.

Eventually, she sighs, and George finds himself sucking in his own breath. "On behalf of everyone here at Death-Cast, we are sorry to lose you."

Are you though? George wants to blurt out and ask, partially out of the sleep deprivation that roughens his mood, and the other reason being how she delivers an overall sour message in such a bright, sing-songy way feels like some sort of underlying insult consisting of Hey, while you're dying, I get to be alive a little while longer. Sucks to be you!

It's not really worth the time being snarky with her, however. George is twenty-four, not twelve, and he's already way past that level of pettiness and pissing on other's parades just so a sliver of their happiness can attend his own.

Death-casters probably get enough of that bullshit anyway; it's a no brainer that the majority of them are heavily disliked. Nobody likes being told they're going to die, especially from a random stranger.

And as much as he wants to laugh hysterically in her face, telling her she's wrong and called the wrong person, or scoff to rid the bitterness staining his tongue, there's nothing he can do to erase the fact that fate already decided that he's going to die. 

In the next twenty-four hours, George is actually going to leave this world. Permanently.

"Live this day to the fullest, okay?"

Her voice is reduced to a mere whisper as George turns off the speaker. Despite that he's taking the high road and is not going to impishly pester the Death-Caster doing her job, he can't bite back the frustration that sets his jaw in place.

George doesn't say anything when he pulls his phone away and holds it in front of him, staring as the seconds on the call tick away and her nearly muted 'hellos' echo from his palm.

He doesn't know why he isn't panicking. Instead of his head spinning, or his heart thrashing around in his chest, fast enough to probably rip through the muscle and kill him on the spot, his body is oddly calm— still even. In the twitter posts that he did happen to stumble upon, most people usually break down by now: cry, scream, throw shit— the whole big bang.

But he's not doing that. No, he's sitting in his chair, spinning aimlessly in pathetic circles while his feet drag against the carpet. Time's ticking away, and he isn't eratically jumping for the next opportunity to do something. To live life with one last memory.

He's acting like he has all the time in the fucking wirld, and yet he doesn't. He's going to die, like actually die. Lose his ability to breathe, die. Lose his ability to function properly, to think, die.

He's going to lose everything he's ever worked for, ever wanted, ever loved sometime in the next twenty-four hours, and he's just sitting there, like a fucking moron.

He's supposed to be feeling something, everything.

And yet, he feels hollow. Empty.

He feels nothing at all because how are you supposed to feel when the world decides that this is suddenly the end for you?

"I'm sorry," The Death-Caster speaks up with one last effort to pretend she genuinely cares. George doesn't really believe that she does anyway, so the effort's rubbish.

The Death-Caster eventually decides he's not there anymore and ends it before he can so she can pursue her next client of the day, leaving George alone in the dim lamp-light with nothing but himself, his shallow breath, and the companionship of exhaustion lingering over his sagging shoulders.

George tosses his phone on the desk with a dull thump, the tips of his feet pulling his chair closer as he slumps over the wooden surface. He props his elbows by his keyboard, head lolling forward to meet his palms half way, and there he shoves his fingers through his short hair. He gives his scalp a rough tug, and the ragged breath he relinquishes leaves his chest aching dully— and when it does, he chuckles mirthlessly because now he's feeling something.

Albeit miniscule and irrelevant, it's something.

And from there, he begins to crumble, piece by piece. The rogue chuckle that manages past his shaking lips in broken, labored breaths fades, the brief tremble of his lungs shredding his chest fissure by fissure. He's feeling something, and naturally, he laughs. He laughs, and it aches, and it stings, and it pours out of him, draining him.

God, he doesn't know what to do, and this shock, or whatever that passes in excruciatingly painful tremors, George just laughs to fill the void as it washes over him and subsides in a repetitive cycle, to do something only 'cause he feels he should be doing something.

The reality settles fast in like he expects. The what-nows, what-ifs, and fucking-hell-this-is-my-life-now thoughts and scenarios trickle into his concious at a rate he can't control, thus dubs his current state as the textbook defintion of overthinking.

What does he do now with his channel? With his streams, his socials, his pets, his family members? More importantly, what's going to happen with his viewers? His own friends?

What's going to happen now that death's already marked him as its own, and how are they going to take this because certainly, nobody is going to react in the same freakish, erratic way George is now. 

Are people going to miss him? Okay, that's a stupid question. Surely, people will miss him. Are people going to hurt? Inevitably so. Death isn't a one day type of thing; grieving exists. 

But what provokes George's shoulders to collapse inward, trembling like his pale knuckles that grasp haphazardly at chunks of his hair in attempt to fight the burning in his eyes with a self-inflicted kind that feels less embarassing, is this particular idea. This idea that sickens him, that numbs the gashes in his chest, and leaves his throat raw despite a lack of sobs.

George glances upward and peers between his thin wrists, gaze fixing on the idle monitor where Discord sits open. His throat bobs when he finds what he's looking for, and there, that shitty feeling worsens when his gaze catches the two little green dots.

Sapnap and Dream. They're active, and George realizes way too soon that he has to tell them.

How in the world is he going to tell his best friends that he's going to die today?

George pushes away from his desk, running his cool palms down his face in an attempt to get his shit together, but instead he can't control the way his hands shake violently, and in their wake his face only feels heavier. He forces out a breath, sinking back into his seat as he glances between his computer and the digital clock that sits over his desk.

As of right now, he has twenty-four hours until he dies, but the nasty, nerve-wrenching catch to Death Casts is the fact they don't tell you _how_.

It's up to the person to discover how they'd die, whether it be in peace or a brutal, tragic death that ends them faster than they can possibly comprehend it.

George knows only one thing amid the turmoil of his own emotions that fluctuate between feeling every little sickening detail to nothing at all to the point its as if someone cracked him apart and hollowed out his insides before quickly shoving them back in, expecting him to recalibrate on the spot.

That one thing is, is that he doesn't want to die yet.

He doesn't want to die until he can figure out how to say goodbye.

Except, George doesn't want to say goodbye. 

George brings his chair closer, thumb finding its place between his teeth as he chews at the skin, so deep in thought his brows knit together in a bunch over his forehead. He just can't bring himself to join the discord call, even when his friends are already screaming to one another in a call. 

There has to be some way to tell them, but he can't fathom what their reactions will be. Hell, he doesn't even want to think how they will react, when he himself can't even settle on one way to feel. But to be fair, there really isn't anyway to properly react.

What Death-Cast does isn't a fair warning. Nothing about this situation is fucking fair, and George's time is ticking away until the clock over his head decides it's his time to permanently log off. 

He brings his fingers over his keyboard, lip caught between his teeth as he debates on what to say, or if he should just go invisible until he figures this out. But before he can come to a solution, a notification chimes, and his gaze snaps up to his monitor where he sees a little message from Sapnap.

_gogyyyyy you wanna play bedwars or nah_

George exhales a soft shit. His cool palm connects with the side of his neck, rubbing up and down the expande of exposed skin as he picks through all the options in his mind that he can choose. There's no doubt he's scrambling. It's like he has no time, like twenty-four hours only feel like five seconds, and anything he does is a waste.

A waste of life. A waste of time. 

But eventually, he reels himself back in, trying to put together the parts of his head that remain leveled, and with some internal encouragement he joins the discord call after texting Sapnap back.

_why not. i got time :]_

It's a lie, but somehow it's easy to type that out and pretend it's the truth. It's easier to stomach— to believe.

well unmute then, Sapnap shoots back with a bunch of typos that George easily understand after all this time. George rolls his eyes. His finger hovers hesitantly over the mouse before he clicks and the iconic Discord bell chimes in his headphones, then flooding his ears with shrill screaming and an oh-so familiar tea kettle wheeze.

"Stop fucking killing me you dick!" Sapnap shouts, voice nearly cracking. "Dream!"

"Give me back my axe then, idiot," Dream manages out in between fits of laughter, laughter that doesn't fail to put a smile on George's lips. It's contagious, Dream's happiness that is, and for a moment, he believes everything is just fine.

"George!" Sapnap calls out to him, dragging George further into this trance that happens to envelop him in this warmth, this familiarity that leaves his chest flourishing with a sort of platonic need.

"I'm here," George says, half as a simple reply, and half as some affirmation that he's still very much alive. He logs onto the smp server, mind working and limbs listening for once, and he takes it in stride, not knowing how long this will last.

"Dream, fuck off," When George spawns, he's fortunate to be in the middle of the action at the right time to see Dream slaughter Sapnap yet again.

"This is harassment! Harass—god fuck you!" Sapnap cries out when he respawns yet again, just to be killed in one shot by Dream's crossbow.

"What's going on?" George finds himself chuckling, relaxing even a little in his chair. Part of his mind still hangs onto the news, though he tells himself it can wait.

For now, all he wishes for is to enjoy this while he can.

"He put my axe in his enderchest," Dream's avatar appears in front of him in all its enchanted, full netherite glory. "He's being a dumbass and won't give it back, so I'm killing him."

"Sapnap, you should give it back," George says, spotting the other idiot crouching behind the hill.

"Of course you're gonna say that," Sapnap grumbles, "whenever Dream wants something, you always side with him."

"That's not true," George counter, supressing a giggle when Dream turns around, finds him, and starts sprinting after him.

"Yes it is! You always have his cock down five inches down your throat— Dream stop!" He whines, fist slamming against his desk repeatedly. George's lips curl automatically into a smile when Dream begins to wheeze. 

"You know what? Fuck both of you." Sapnap mumbles, and much to George's own amusement, Sapnap left the game in bright yellow appears in the corner of his screen.

"M'just just gonna keep killing you when you come back on," There's this natural smugness in Dream's voice, one that George's always admired because he always happens to sound so cool without trying.

And then there's Sapnap, who's groaning yet again, "I don't understand why you can't just get another one."

"Because that took a lot of grinding, and I'm not gonna grind for a couple hours for a goddamn axe."

"You have creative powers, just spawn a new one."

"M'not a cheater."

"Your 1 in 7.5 trillion chances say otherwise," Sapnap spits out.

Dream scoffs, "Oh now I'm really gonna kill you when you get back."

"Yeah, yeah fuck you Dream," Sapnap blows a raspberry at his mic. George rolls his eyes yet again at their ridiculous arguments, only because he knows with time it'll blow over, and Dream won't care about his axe anymore.

"I got time," Dream chuckles dryly, "I got George to wait with me. Right George?"

 _Time_. They both have all the time in the world, and somehow, the thought of not being able to spend that time with them plummets George's mood and Dream's words simply fly over his head, because now he has to tell them. He swallows thickly, his other hand curling into a fist beside his keyboard, the sentence stuck in a knot building in his throat. 

He can't do this, can't figure out how to word it, how to even say it. George sucks in a shaky breath through his nose, eyes fluttering shut, and fuck, he aches all over. Times ticking, minutes are passing, seconds are diminishing, and the longer he waits, the more his heart squeezes, and his throat throbs.

The longer he waits, the closer he is to death. The closer he is to leaving them behind, when they promised to grow together.

And as selfish and stupid this is, George just _can't_.

Maybe he shouldn't tell them. Maybe he'll let his mom tell them when he passes, but then again, they'll probably be mad at him, and he can't really live with the idea (even if he's dead) that they're remembering him with a bad memory in his wake.

Maybe he'll just text it. Yes, he'll just dm them in a group chat, and that will be it. No phone calls. No facetimes. It'll be easier to just leave that way. It'll be easier to stomach that he'll be dying alone, and at least his friends will be together—

"George?" His eyes snap open when he hears the familiar punch sound affect in his headphones. He glances up to see Dream in front of him, hitting his character again.

"Yeah?" He musters out, wincing when his voice sounds a little strained, knowing Dream will pick it up. "What's up?"

"You doing alright?" Dream queries.

In an attempt to sound brighter, George muses, "Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?” He hits him back, spam clicking his mouse even though the damage does nothing.

"Right," Dream doesn't sound so convinced, and before he can further question George much to the anxiety bubbling in his stomach, the vc chimes again.

"Helloooo bitches," Quackity's voice erupts into the mic, nearly making George flinch with how loud he is.

"Hi Quackity," Sapnap says, saving the call from any form of awkward silence. George is thankful for that, but nothing can change the uneasiness that settles over his shoulders when Dream mutes.

He tries to focus on Quackity's naked character in nothing but short black shorts comes bounding toward Dream and him from a distance. He's punching sporadically at the air, giggling manically until he finally joins George's side and gives him a punch that sends his character back.

"George!" Quackity draws out every syllable, ignoring Dream as he pushes his avatar aside, "Are you busy?"

"No," Another lie. Well, it's a partial lie. "What's up?"

"I'm streaming!" George tenses. "Are you down to play some roblox again?"

"Uh, you're what now?" He blinks. Quackity snorts.

"I'm streaming. Like, right now, now, and I was wondering if you wanna join me!" Quackity says enthusiastically. "Whaddya say, my man?"

"I-um," George stammers, glancing between his friends and his phone, licking his chapped lips as his mind darts around for some answer. "I-just—."

"What? You're cutting out," Quackity says, but before George can come up with an answer— "Awh, thanks for the dono, asherline20! I'm trying to convince him to play right now."

"So, George," He gulps when Quackity averts his attention back to him, "Wanna explore the world of roblox again? I have some worlds to show you, if you have the time." _Time_.

Panic raises up George's throat in the form of bile, the edges of his vision blurring together into a blob of colors he can't really see. He swallows, trying to keep the truth down, the words he doesn't want to say, but it singes his throat raw, and the flames lick up his chest, burning everything in its way.

"George?" Quackity asks again, the overly bubbly persona he puts on falling apart when George doesn't say anything. "You okay, George?"

"Yeah," George nods profusely, and from the corner of his vision, he spots a message from Dream: are u okay? No, he isn't, but how can he tell them when there's now thousands of other people watching? 

"I just," He digs his finger nails into his palm, "Sorry, I can't. I have a call I-uh, need to attend to."

And the second he blurts those words out, the entire call falls dead silent and regret fills him like cement, weighing heavy over his shoulders and the bile, fuck the bile, bubbles behind his tongue.

 _Fuck_.

Nobody dares to say anything, not even Quackity, and when George pulls up his stream on his other monitor, the others looks as though he's witnessed a ghost.

"Well, I'm sorry to cut this stream short but," Quackity clears his throat. George lowers his head, biting down hard on his lip as his shoulders begin to tremble.

"Something just came up, so uh, I'll see you later stream."

"Bye stream!" Sapnap tries to stay enthusiastic for the viewers, but it doesn't take an idiot to sense that something's wrong.

And when it's all over, and there's nobody but them watching, Quackity's voice softens, "Is everything okay?"

"No," George breathes out, crumbling away faster than he can pick up the pieces and hold himself together. He falls apart, falls through his fingers, and there's nothing left to hide or save so he says,

"I'm so sorry, you didn't have—,"

"—It wasn't your fault. I ended the stream because I wanted to," Alex interrupts him, "But George, in all seriousness, you got a death-cast call, didn't you?"

You got a death-cast call, didn't you?

"George," Nick whispers, "is this true?"

George's unfortunate silence does nothing but confirm their worst assumptions.

"Fuck, George, I'm so sorry," Alex says, voice so soft, he can barely hear him. "You don't... you don't deserve this at all."

"How much time do you have left?"

"Less than twenty-four hours," George murmurs, reeling back into his chair, tilting his head up to the ceiling when he feels the familiar tinge behind his eyes, and its then does he bite his lip hard until he can taste metal on his tongue because that is somehow more comforting than hearing the pain of his friends wishing him goodbye.

"Fuck George," Sapnap's voice cracks. "You're kidding."

"He isn't," Alex replies, voice void of any emotion, "A call is a call. Once you get it—,"

"—I know," Sapnap whispers, "I know. It's just, why George? Why does it have to be you?"

George wishes he has the answer for that.

"When did you get the call?" Dream suddenly asks, speaking up before any else can take the chance. George averts his gaze back to his monitor, the skin between his brows bunched, and for a second, his heart leaps in chest, clearly awaiting Dream's response.

"Like, almost thirty five minutes ago?" George glances at the clock. "Why?"

"I need to go," Dream doesn't sound happy at all. In fact, he sounds... pissed.

"Dude, are you gonna come back though?" Sapnap questions him, only to be met with a curt "no".

He immediately sits up in his chair, wondering if he did something wrong, if Dream's mad at him already because he can't— he can't deal with his bestest friend being angry with him when there's no time to resolve anything.

There's no time, and George panics because that's somehow the only thing he can do. "Dream, I-I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys earlier," George rushes, taking the chance before Dream can leave to explain. 

"I didn't know what to say, or how to tell you. I wanted to tell you guys— Dream, come on, don't go," George pleads, chest wrenching, heart wavering, when Dream remains silent and leaves the voice channel.

George sinks back into his chair, heartbeat rushing through his ears, almost as deafening as the silence and the shock that leaves him glued to his seat. He exhales harshly, teeth sinking down on his quivering lip as the tears he's fought so hard to fight back pool at the corner of his eyes. He wraps his arms around himself, fingers digging into his sides as he lets his eyes flutter shut and the tears run rampant.

"He's mad at me," His voice sounds small, "I'm going to die, and Dream's angry at me." He repeats, and it hurts worse, saying it out loud.

"C'mon George, it's not your fault," Sapnap tries to cheer him up. "He's probably leaving to absorb everything. Y'know Dream. He handles stuff alone."

"Yeah, don't mind him," Alex sighs, "He'll come around, okay? He's your fucking best friend. He's not gonna let you die alone. Hell, we're not gonna let you die alone George."

He scoots closer to his desk to his direct messages with Dream. He sends him a message, calling out to him, apologizing in all the ways he can while his hands shake uncontrollably as he feels the first hot tear drip down his cheek.

It's stupid, all of this is.

It's stupid and unfair, and Dream's mad at him, and god knows how long it'll take for him to come around. Him leaving is enough to shred him apart, and for some reason, it hurts way worse that he did when a call telling him he's going to die should have destroyed him by this point.

"It'll be okay," Alex says, but George can't bring himself to believe him. He begs Dream to answer, continuing with the spam until his Discord icon dies out and fades to black.

It's not okay, George thinks, nothing is going to be okay. Everyone already knows that, but just like him, they're afraid to admit it. They're all afraid, and there's nothing they can do.

All because George got the call that he's going to die at around midnight, and now, he has less than twenty-four hours left to say goodbye.

To love. To make memories. _To live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! the chapters vary in length, but i’ll let you know they’ll probably range from 3-4k at most. anyway, if you have any comments/criticism/or anything, feel free to leave them down below (: i’ll do my best to check them out and to update fast if a lot of people do end up liking this <3 
> 
> hope you guys are having a good day/night and start to your 2021!! much love!


	2. 1:00 A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry this update took so long! school started back up again, and stuff came up. however, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter nonetheless ((: thank you for sticking with me, and for all the kudos + lovely comments <3

**1:00 a.m. [XX/XX/XX]**

"Do you know what you want to do?"

Quackity's voice hums from George's phone, the two of them having migrated from discord to a facetime call after convincing Sapnap that it was okay to go to since he was busy, even going as far as giving loose promises that George would be there when he wakes up to ease the youngest's worries.

Nobody knows what's going to happen next, but he supposes clinging onto some sort of false hope is enough comfort one can get in a situation as off-putting as George's.

"I plan to tell my family in the morning when they wake up," George tosses onto his side, clutching the pillow he's hugging closer to his chest.

He dreads the idea of telling them, hell, he doesn't even know where to start, but it's not fair to lie to them that everything's okay when it isn't.

"Good. Small steps are always good," Quackity says, and something rustles on his end. He guesses he's probably getting into bed; it's late there.

"Yeah, I guess," He whispers, burying his face into his pillow, squeezing it tighter in his embrace. "I'll figure it out. What to do."

"It's probably a good idea to not go outside too, or well, do anything. Death-casts don't tell you how you die, right?"

"Precisely," George mutters. "I could either die in my sleep, choke on some grape, or get brutally mauled by a dog. It's free for all, basically."

"Sheesh," Quackity breathes out, "Well, don't think like that. Maybe you'll die peacefully— who knows."

"Who knows," He repeats, exhaling softly, his fingers playing with the edge of the pillowcase.

"Hey Alex?"

"Yeah?" On the screen, Quackity's face comes into view, and he's there, in bed. Although he's far away in some other country, George supposes this can be comforting, knowing someone's there for him. That someone who appreciates him is awake, staying with him as time dwindles away.

That's what George loves the most about Quackity, with full honesty and sappiness and cringe. Beyond his stupid jokes, his ridiculous bits, and his overall loud and obnoxious character (don't get him wrong, he still loves him the same), the guy behind the streamer persona is just as amazing, if not, even more.

There's this quality to Quackity where he always happens to put the extra effort into everything he does, whether it be in knowing what to say, or how to match your energy so you feel special, included. Quackity is comfort in a person, to be honest, and when his time's over, he knows he's going to miss him more than words can probably describe.

There's not doubt that he'll miss his giddy laughter, his ability to always light up the mood, or how he always manages to make George feel less lonely by just existing. George's heart tugs roughly at the idea of leaving Quackity behind.

He doesn't want to live in a world without him, but the universe just isn't fair.

There's going to be a world without any of his friends, without him, and that's how it's going to be.

"How am I gonna tell my followers?" He eventually says, already dreading the thought of revealing the truth to his supporters when he could barely even manage to tell his own friends that he's going to die.

However, there's no time to dwell, to overthink on anything. There's opportunities he can't miss, and plenty of goodbyes to say— twenty four hours may seem like a lot, but really, it's nothing. It's nothing compared to the days where you actually get to live, to experience seconds and minutes drag by, having that additional comfort that you still had time.

"You can go on one last stream for as long as you want," Quackity says, interrupting his thoughts, and for a moment, he weighs in on the idea.

"You get to stay in your room, and there won't be any freak accidents to kill you!"

"It's a good idea," George eventually says. "Didn't you already get into bed though? If you're tired, you don't have to join me."

"Dude, you're really believing I'd miss out on some quality George time? Please," He manages a small chuckle when Quackity rolls his eyes at him. "I'll join you. It's the least I can do right now."

"Alright," He whispers, hearing Quackity's bed creak as he gets up and heads over to his set-up, taking George with him. "Do you wanna hop on the SMP?"

"Sure, we can do that," Quackity's voice is a little muffled, "Maybe we can do one last tour! I'll do the tour shit Karl did for Poki and Corpse."

"One last tour," George murmurs, pushing off his bed, his back leaning against his headboard. "It's really gonna be the last time I see the server, huh?"

"It'll be the best last tour ever. Karl will go cry to his fucking mom 'cuz our tour will be ten times better than his," Quackity declares. At that, George snickers softly, and with one last final push off his bed, he's walking back to his monitor set-up.

He sinks back down on his chair, phone now sitting on his desk, and his free hand wiggling his mouse to wake up his computer when Quackity says, "We can do all the last minute things you've always wanted to do on the SMP right after."

"And what would that be?" George raises an eyebrow at him while he puts on his headphones. He proceeds to open his Discord to find Quackity, and when he clicks to join his vc, he ends their phone call.

"Whatever you wanna do," Quackity's voice erupts into his headphones. "We can get more disks. We can build a fucking country. We can do a manhunt! The ideas are limitless, my dear friend."

"Let's stick with the tour," George says, shaking his head as Quackity starts singing the stupid speedrun music Dream always puts into his manhunts.

And while he starts up his stream, for a moment, his mind inevitably drifts over to the idea of Dream, wondering where he is. He still hasn't answered any of his texts, much to his own hopes that Dream would reply back after he's been given some space.

It's not that he doesn't care, in fact, he does care. Cares a little too much that his chest aches dully when his attention falls back onto his unopened messages.

It's just a text, a response, and Dream isn't entitled to talk to him, but he wants to hear from him one last time. He just wants to hear his voice, hear him say George, because it's funny how memory works, and with this influx of death overflowing through his mind, Dream's voice gets lost in the mix.

It's awful how he can't remember how he says his name, can't hear his laugh even though he just heard it an hour ago.

It's stupid to feel this way when's he never really before. Besides when they argue, it's only then does his chest feels heavy, and guilt lingers in the back of his mind, weighing like lead on his tongue, and only soft apologizes manage to leave past his lips. Now, it's even worse, like the effects multiplied because he's dying soon, and emotions are unfairly amplified by the thousands when you know your life is going to end.

He just doesn't want to leave without hearing from Dream— is that really too much to ask for?

Glancing one last time at their imessage conversation, his breath hitches as he types what can potentially be his last message to him:

i'm sorry. come back ]:

"You ready?" He whips his head back to his monitor where Quackity is waiting for him. He inhales shakily and nods along, biting nervously on his lip as he watches from his peripheral that his message doesn't deliver.

Where can Dream possibly be?

"Ready as I can ever be," George swallows thickly, shutting his phone off and flipping it over on his front. "Let's do this," he whispers almost inaudibly as the words catch in his throat.

Right before the stream starts up, George tries to wipe away any essence of sadness from his features when he looks into his camera. It's obvious he's tired, anyone who takes the time to zoom into his face can see budding dark circles and the red rim of his eyelids from pathetically crying a bit ago.

He puts the quality down a notch just in case, and as minecraft boots up, he practices a smile that's believable.

It hurts— the way his mouth tugs unnaturally around the corners, and the person in the camera doesn't really look like him. He rubs at his eyes, his face, kneading at the skin until he can look at himself without it being a disorienting blur, and when he finally brings himself to smile brightly one more time at the camera, it looks like nothing ever happened.

Like everything's normal again.

The stream starts, and viewers come pouring in with subs, follows, and messages saying that they miss him. That they love him. That they hope it's okay. And because of that, as George joins the server with Quackity, his heart swells. It's a light, tender ache that encloses around his chest, but this time, it's not bad. It empowers the smile on his face, makes him feel a little loose, a little less sad.

"Hello everybody," He waves at his camera, putting on a goofy smile while viewers greet him back.

“It's nice to see you guys!" It's nice to see you guys one last time.

"I'm with Quackity today," He muses, waving one last time at the starting screen before switching his stream over to minecraft. "You may be wondering what we're gonna do, and tonight we got a plan."

"I'm gonna give Georgenotfound a tour of the Dream SMP!" He can't fight the smile that stretches over his lips when Quackity speaks up with an incredibly stupid, frufru, British accent that's poorly over exaggerated.

"Yes, he's gonna give me a tour," George giggles softly, reeling back when Quackity runs after him in a new skin adorning a tacky British soldier costume.

"Why is he gonna give me a tour?" His breath hitches when he catches a glimpse at the chat filtering over his screen. He glances at Quackity’s character, words building at the tip of his tongue as he drums his fingers over his desk.

God, how should he put this?

George swallows thickly, shaking his head as a gentle laugh forces its way past his lips. Quackity’s character comes to a stop in front of him, staring back at him, and though he says nothing, George knows what he has to do. There’s no way he can avoid it— he has to say it.

“Quackity’s giving me a tour because I’m leaving soon,” He says, the words sounding stiff as he wills himself to say every sentence out loud despite how his lungs are being forcefully stripped of oxygen and his heartbeat leaves him dizzy in his seat.

“I got the call.”

It comes out as a pained whisper, and before George can even begin to cry, he shuts off his camera, letting himself slump back into his seat. He tilts his head up at the ceiling, eyes pinching shut, desperately fighting the searing urge that burns behind them. He inhales slowly, head hanging back forward as he runs a shaking hand down his face.

“I know,” George says, voice soft, his head in his palms, “It’s not a good note to start the stream on, but we’re gonna make it good, yeah?”

“We’ll make it the best goodbye,” Quackity speaks up. “Everyone, we love George, right? We’re gonna make sure he feels it today.”

“Especially for today.”

“Quackity,” He looks up from his hands and at their discord call, the skin between his brows creased as his heart plummets into the bottom of his stomach, settling heavy in the pit of his own sorrows.

“Come on everyone,” Quackity takes charge, “Give him so love. Today’s going to be the best stream, yet.” 

At that, George cracks a tiny smile, and eventually gathers the effort to turn his camera back on. He turns to it, waving at his followers, and for a moment he lets his gaze drift toward his chat, and fuck, it hurts. Everyone’s spamming him hearts and “i love you’s” and subscriptions. They’re here, all of them, and somehow it feels less lonely, less cold.

A surge of warmth flourishes through his chest, easing his shoulders, the tension building in his brow, even uplifting the edges of his lips. He has to snap out of it and enjoy this. These last few hours are meant to be spend with people you love, and George loves them. All of them.

And they’re here to remind him of that, and even though he’s going to die soon, at least George feels loved.

•••

“He’s trending all over Twitter,” Sapnap tells Dream, his voice echoing into his headphones as he moves with the crowd, keeping his gaze trained to his phone though occasionally looking up to make sure he won’t bump into someone.

But he’s right. George is trending with all sorts of heartfet hashtags, all talking about his recent death cast. Even the twitter description guy left him a little goodbye in the description box, which honestly, is a little bit funny but meaningful and appreciated nonetheless considering all the times they’ve spent together when something stupid trends in their fandom.

Every message he takes the time to read a tweet, it chips away at Dream’s heart, sometimes even breaking off bigger pieces that Dream can’t do anything but watch as they fall to the ground and shatter at his feet.

It’s the memories that do this. The clips and highlights and the past streams that people post of George that break him.

It’s thinking that these are going to be the last memories he’ll ever have with George. That one day, all he’ll have left of him are videos to remind him of his smile or his laugh when time is cruel and tries to erace the traces of him that make him feel alive from his memories.

He doesn’t think he can live with himself if he let George die alone in Britain without having met him ever in their entire life time. Time wasn’t really nice to them, always fucking up schedules. Fear liked to hold them back because it’s scary to be in person with someone important to you, to see them real in front of you after getting to know them virtually for so long.

But Dream doesn’t want to let go of George without seeing him, without getting to witness him in the flesh— all real and imperfect and human in front of him. Doesn’t want it to be the last time without being able to hold him, to hug him, to talk to him in person, and make him smile and laugh in person.

And so, that’s why he booked a last minute flight to Britain on impulse.

He doesn’t have much of a plan really. The second he heard George got a death cast, Dream knew he can’t leave everything at this. They’ve let Time have their way with them for too long.

Every part of him wants to be with him before he dies.

That’s all that really matters.

Although, he makes the mistake of not telling anyone, or rather, giving a total explanation of his whereabouts because he suddenly left Patches with his parents and forgot to tell Sapnap about his little plan in the last hour he spent packing frantically, trying to make it in time, trying to beat the timer over George’s head.

By now, he’s in the airport, about to board his flight soon if he can just locate the terminal. In the meantime, Dream’s on the phone with Sapnap’sall because he kept spamming his phone until he picked up, and eventually, he knows he has to let him in on his plan, as guilty as he is for leaving him out.

“I’m still hurt you did this without telling me,” He says right as the thought formulates in Dream’s mind.

“We couldn’t coordinate it fast enough if I did,” Dream tries to reason, finally closing out of Twittwr after getting a glimpse at the clock on his phone. He looks up, focusing ahead of him to look for his flight among the bustling crowd of bodies swarming around him.

“Yeah, yeah, just say you love George and go,” Sapnap snorts.

“Well duh, he’s our friend. You love him too,” Dream counters. “Why don’t you book a flight and join me?”

“Because I don’t have the money or the time to make massive, romantic gestures.”

“This isn’t a romantic gesture,” Dream says in a matter of fact way, shutting the jokes down before they can get out of hand.

“Right,” Sapnap hums, “well I have school, so I can’t rush on a plane to see George as much as I want to. If I could, you know I would.”

“I know,” He whispers back at him, unable to comprehend how Sapnap must be feeling after hearing all of this. Doesn’t know how frustrated, how much more hurt he is. “I know you would.”

“But anyway, you saw twitter, right?”

“Yeah, I saw all the messages. They’re sweet,” Dream remembers the one he read not too long ago. The one about how they’re going to miss George’s content, his smile, and the light in him that makes the dark a little more bearable, brighter.

It warms Dream to read them, but it hurts worse to think he isn’t the only one losing somebody. Out there, thousands of people are going to be in pain, missing George who is their comfort, their only source of happiness. He can’t even imagine how they must be feeling. How many others wish to have this same chance to see him because that person who wrote that is right.

George is light and everything easy in the best possible way, and Dream just can’t picture his life without him. Can’t picture not getting his dumb texts, or seeing him in a voice channel, or watch others make him happy in ways he can’t on streams he can’t join.

It’ll be dark again, without George, and Dream isn’t sure how long it’ll last so this, this is his last chance to feel light, to feel happy with him.

To feel the easy kind of happy where smiling is effortless and being with George is the only one he can think about.

“Are you receiving any messages?” Sapnap snaps him out of his thoughts. Dream realize’s he’s already at the terminal, and luckily they haven’t boarded.

“No,” It’s not really the truth but not really a lie. He muted his phone a while ago, but he’s sure there’s probably some texts. “Haven’t checked.”

“Check them. George thinks you’re mad at him,” Sapnap says. “I don’t think you want him to spend his last few hours thinking the guy he loves hates him.”

“Of course not. It’s only for a little, and why are you wording it like that?” Dream asks, brows furrowing as he leans his back against a wall, watching the people set up the boarding area ahead of him.

“Because it’s true,” He says. “He loves you.”

“I know. He loves you too,” Dream says, and after Sapnap says nothing, or rather, he can hear him shuffling around on the other end and he’s being quiet on purpose to piss him off. He rolls his eyes and adds, “Did you leave a message for him on twitter like the others?”

“I was thinking of posting something for him. Karl suggested it when he woke up,” Sapnap finally speaks up, dropping the previous topic with ease.

“What is it?”

“A video. A video of us recording ourselves on why we love George.”

“Isn’t that too cheesy for you?” Dream asks, raising an eyebrow at him, though knowing he can’t possibly see him.

“I’ll be cheesy if it’s for the bros,” Sapnap says smugly. Of course he will, Dream thinks, chuckling tiredly to himself. “Okay but seriously, I think it’s worth it. Karl said everyone’s been sending them in from the SMP. He’s in the process of editing it.”

“You think he’ll be able to finish it before the time, you know?”

“Maybe,” He can picture Sapnap shrugging. “But I think you should record yourself. Not an eyesore of a green M.S paint blob. Actually you. The real you.”

“I haven’t face revealed yet,” Dream’s quick to shut that down, but Sapnap matches his speed when he cuts him off.

“And so? Record it, for George. A message of what you want him to hear. Be honest in it, y’know. Say goodbye.”

“I’m not gonna say goodbye, Sap. He’s still here,” there’s an edge to his words. A defensive edge, and once Dream realizes it, he swallows thickly. There’s no reason to say goodbye when he’s still here.

“I know, but it’s just in case. Dream, just consider it. I just know George will appreciate it,” For once, Sapnap’s voice softens, the solemnity in his every word a change for Dream, who is so used to his cursing and brash phrasings.

It’s different. Odd, even. But this entire situation is odd and new and stupidly painful, so it fits.

“Fine,” Dream says after some thought, though there’s no way he’s doing this now without knowing what to say. He runs a hand through his sandy hair, letting his palm then slide down the expanse of his neck and settle at the junction between his collar bone and his shoulders.

There’s so much to say. So much words and possibilities to convey how feels, and yet he doesn’t even know what he feels.

The only thing he knows is that he can’t screw it up or record a video out of nowhere. It has to mean something. To be special because George is undeniably special. So special, losing him is like losing a part of himself.

“I’ll consider it.”

“Now boarding, one way flight to London, England.”

“Is that you?” Sapnap asks as Dream pushes off the wall, walking up to the boarding line with his tickets in hand.

“Yeah, I have to go,” Dream murmurs, getting in line. “I’ll call you when I’m with George, alright?”

“Stay safe,” Sapnap says, “Take care. Tell George I love him when you see him.”

“I will,” He assures him, “How could I not?” At that, Sapnap laughs softly.

“I know you would do it. I’ll see you Dream, I hope you figure it out with George.”

“Figure what out?”

“You’ll see when you get there,” Sapnap chuckles. “Bye Dream!” And with that, he ends the call before he can answer, leaving Dream alone.

Well, he’s only alone for now. But in the mean time as he progresses in line, he weighs in on his friend’s last words to him. Sapnap probably means he needs to figure out what to say in that recording, though the question is how can one manage to fit years of history and feelings into a couple of minutes?

Surely, he’ll figure it out: how to define his feelings for someone that words can’t describe on their own. If that is even in possible, but what’s important is that in, nine hours, he’ll finally get to see George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooo, the ball’s rolling (: I hope this was worth the wait! I’ll try to get another chapter out soon as I can. In the mean time, if you guys have any thoughts/criticism/or just comments in general, they’re much appreciated. Thank you again for giving this story a chance <3


End file.
